


Vestige

by KitschyKit



Series: Extinction Martin [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Anti-Capitalism, Canon-Typical Cosmic Horror, Existential Angst, Extinction Avatar Martin Blackwood, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, minor manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28726416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitschyKit/pseuds/KitschyKit
Summary: “I made my choice.” Martin said simply, no room for doubt.He might have, Annabelle knew, once blamed her for his transformation, but now he refused. He disallowed her the comfort of manipulation, and the part of her that was Spiderseethedthat he would take it all upon himself and not feed her hunger.He was worse, without Jon, in so many ways.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Extinction Martin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105922
Kudos: 15





	Vestige

**Author's Note:**

> Vestige (noun):  
> 1) A footprint; a trace; hence, a impression or appearance of something which is no longer present or in existence  
> 2) A sign of something vanished, lost, or destroyed; the remains of something passed away.
> 
> The final arc of TMA starts tomorrow. Good Luck.

Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, had once been forced to open the door, and it had shattered upon its opening. 

And then later, when he had gorged on the fears, traversed their domains, and strained under infinite power, he built a new door. A new door at the top of the panopticon, over the remains of the wretched king. He saw the very edges of reality and he Knew what had to be done, as he pulled those edges to him. The fears did not go willingly, but he was nothing if not dutiful, and thorough, and stubborn. The petty perfectionist in him had sung _do it once, do it right._

Everything that was Archive shoved the dread powers away into its true domain, a parallel to the dimension they had dwelled before. But he could not close it without the power of the Beholding. He had to _keep_ that power, until they were truly sealed away. There would always be tethers and creeping infections of fear seeping through, but he could destroy the _door,_ because he _was_ the door. 

Yet, it was everything that was Jonathon Sims, scared and human, that closed the door behind him. It hissed like an airtight seal, like a hiss of an extinguisher, like a hiss of pain. It smelled like old paper and blood. A distant memory bloomed in his mind, and he clung to it, apologizing to their past selves for everything they could’ve been. 

And the last and most precious part of him, the part that loved beyond the fear, held a knife up to his eyes, and locked it. 

And the Eye, searching for one last morsel, fixed its gaze upon its lonely acolyte, seeing how futile and desperate he was, as he could do nothing but watch— and it placed this knowledge into Martin’s head. 

And then Jon was gone. 

_____________

She had found him in Wembley, lying in the middle of the artificial field. Red-tinged clouds of a chemical sunset drifted above the open roof, but the rest of the building had darker corners better suited for her kin, dust and debris and shadows to hide— she disliked being so exposed, reluctant to step further into the stands and down the stairs to the pitch. 

She lingered by the overhang, scanning the deserted sea of plastic red seats, the air around her stagnant with memory of a different time. 

Just for a moment, she thought she heard cheering. 

_Ping._

Faint, steady, it echoed from his place in midfield, where he simply waited. 

She sent out a scout first, a plain house spider to see if her presence was welcome, a thread spooling from her fingertips. The little spider skittered down stairs and cement inclines, darted through the grass, and… paused. A careful movement then, the looming presence of a finger outstretched. 

Annabelle felt the silk strand across that gap warm with an unnatural heat, but the little scout spider remained whole, and climbed up to rest on knuckles scarred and warped into shape. 

She took the affirmation for what it was, and began her descent to the pitch. His… radar gradually increased in frequency until she stepped onto the grass, apparently close enough for it to end, though she was still a good few yards away. She considered the possibility that he could control it now, but the thought brought little comfort to her as the Eye pressed on them both. 

It’s favor eternal, despite his new allegiance, it was and would and will be ceaseless as it bears witness to the slow collapse that will come for them all. 

Annabelle did not squirm under its gaze, even as her (few, so few now) silver strands became Known and gleamed in the light, stretching out in all directions. 

Martin’s smile was faint, laughter lines stiff on his weathered face, and he sat up as she approached. The scout spider quivered on its perch.

He did not, however, move to destroy the connection now between them. 

She sat, many limbed and graceful, at a 45 degree angle to him, as she maintained a deliberate but intimate distance. In another life, she remembered an interrogation class she had taken, but this was not an interrogation. 

He had updated his box for the tapes, a sturdy waterproof tub, lined with lead. Heavy and durable protection from the elements, and from himself. 

Her antithesis, her other side of a coin. He was inevitable, small actions leading in a long complicated chain of a society built for convenience, pulling at polluted parodies of her strands. 

“How are you?” He prompted first, polite, and she could not remember the last time such a question had been asked of her. 

“Nostalgic,” Annabelle answered without meaning to, though she knew there was no compulsion behind the question. 

“I thought you would have an easier time of this.” He observed, but did not sound surprised.

“Things are different now,” she murmured. “People prioritize different things. It’s not as intricate.” 

“I suppose that’s true,” he agreed pleasantly enough. “Seeing the world like this, stable but haunted, bound to make anyone reminisce about how it was in the good old days.” 

“But not you.”

“Always me,” Martin corrected. “How did you phrase it? Something something ‘Change is only terrifying when you have the remains of what it was like before,’ right? You have to really remember to be truly scared.” 

Annabelle went very, very still. 

“How long?” She asked. 

“Dunno. How long were you following me? I’m not doing it on purpose, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s just passive.” 

This was the problem— the Extinction dealt in fear of a corroded future, and that might include the fear that things will never be the same. And Annabelle needed to adapt. Accountability for her actions had never suited her, so she reminisced instead. Even that was a mistake. 

“What does your patron want?” She asked instead. 

“You know that’s not the right question,” Martin sighed. “But that grief and nostalgia bit? It all comes down to power.” 

He shrugged, and it sounded like the shifting of pleather. “The real people that pollute the world are so high up in their ivory towers, so untouchable… What feeds Extinction is the helplessness. Only the rich have the power to stop climate change and pollution, but they never will. If the Desolation is cruel and active destruction, this is selfish convenience. For the powerful to stay powerful, at all costs, whether it be through pipelines or nuclear armageddon.”

“It takes time,” she realized, and just barely managed to change her tone to insightful, rather than surprised. “To harvest that type of learned helplessness.” 

“Slow,” he agreed. “Not unlike the Web. But it is why it emerged after the Change. Now everyone knows that as much as you try to fight it, or stop it, or delay it, the world will warp and crumble, and eventually disappear forever. Something I’m familiar with, apparently.” 

“Is that why you...?” She prodded, eyes keen as the rest of the question floated in the air between them. 

“The damage has been done,” he said slowly. “But no. I suppose I wanted to be a warning, but you know how these things twist our intentions. Maybe I just had nothing else left.” 

He stood, and she followed, though she knew they would not leave together. 

Still, she was startled when he held out his hand. Not to take— but to watch as the single piece of web broke, dissolving her connection to him. 

“It’s not that I don’t want the company.” He rumbled, low and gentle. “But prolonged exposure is dangerous. For you, that is.” 

“Radiation?” She guessed, and then knew with an uncomfortable certainty that her spider on his shoulder had not been that color before. 

“Best not to interfere with something you will never be able to control,” he warned her, though it was not a threat. “Or you will lose what little you have left.” 

“Coming from you,” Annabelle protested. “You and Jon did the impossible.” 

“ _Containing_ them isn’t the same as _control_ ,” Martin replied, terser with his tone.“ _You_ should know that. And you should do neither to me. Bad for your health.” 

“I was worse for yours,” she said as she searched for a weakness for herself to then weakly cling to. “I encouraged you. _I_ turned you into this.”

“I made my choice.” He said simply, no room for doubt. Martin knew better, than to assign responsibility to the Web. 

He might have, Annabelle knew, once blamed her for his transformation, but now he refused. Intentional or not, he disallowed her the comfort of manipulation, and the part of her that was Spider _seethed_ that he would take it all upon himself and not feed her hunger. 

He was worse, without Jon, in so many ways. 

And a small flea-like part of her whispered that that was why she couldn’t stay away. 

“Will you ever give them away?” She asked softly, looking at the box of tapes under his arm. 

Her genuine tone did its job, and he matched it, equally soft. “No. No, I think… well, I am what I am now.” 

“You wanted them to be a warning too,” she implored. “You don’t have to be forgotten. _Jon_ doesn’t have to be forgotten.” 

Martin stared at her, and she felt the Eye follow suit, pressing further, eager to drink in her discomfort. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, for she did not need to lie to get what she wanted. “Will you let me do this?” 

She wondered if he could sense her fear. 

Martin nodded once then, a stiff motion that crinkled like plastic, and he carefully, painfully, set down the tapes. For a moment, his eyes were wet with an oily rainbow sheen, but just as quickly they were dull again, accepting of his fate. 

When Martin left, it was an aimless march, as he followed a compass rose that wasn’t there anymore. But he moved forward, for he could do nothing else. 

Annabelle Cane picked up the box, and turned her mind towards the radio tower in the distance, towards the call of her Mother, towards the silver strands that pulled taut across her fingers. She saw events and people and motivations align. She ached for what could have been. 

She went back the way she came, for she had work to do. 

**Author's Note:**

> One day when I'm not burnt out by the real world, I'll go back to writing porn and things. Until then, small pieces of tragedy will have to do.


End file.
